


It's Okay (It's Really Not)

by Bootsrcool



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Dark, Gen, Hopeful Ending, John and Sherlock do NOT die!, Mild Gore, Neither John or Sherlock are the shooter, School Shootings, Teen Deaths, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 04:48:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13756644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bootsrcool/pseuds/Bootsrcool
Summary: John wakes up that morning like he wakes up every other morning on Mondays through Fridays. With a blaring alarm clock and the smell of his mother cooking breakfast.*****Sherlock wakes up that morning hours before his parents alarm clock goes off. In fact, he has been up since sometime after four, in the basement working on experiments.





	It's Okay (It's Really Not)

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me the other day after the school shooting in Florida. I don't usually write things like this, but I feel like this is important. I had gone to a school where kids would get caught with hunting knives in their lockers and a few times someone has walked in with a gun. It has never evolved into a shooting, but there were a few days in the three years I was in highschool where there was a lockdown and the police would sweep the school. I was lucky that it never came to what is did last week in Florida.
> 
> So I wrote this. Mostly a way to get shit off my chest.
> 
> This is not betaread or britpicked.

John wakes up that morning like he wakes up every other morning on Mondays through Fridays. With a blaring alarm clock and the smell of his mother cooking breakfast.

With a groan, John rolls over to the edge of the bed and gets up, going to the bathroom for his morning rituals, then back to his room to get dressed. He bums around on his laptop for a while until just before he is going to be late to the bus before running downstairs and grabbing whatever food his mum made that day with a shout of thanks, barely hearing the returning reply as he runs to catch the bus.

John is in sixth form, it's March, one day before Easter holiday and John doesn't see anything different that morning in homeroom than he does any other morning.

But someone else does.

*****

Sherlock wakes up that morning hours before his parents alarm clock goes off. In fact, he has been up since sometime after four, in the basement working on experiments. The current one laid across a table is how long it takes for a limb to decompose when exposed to heat for an hour, cooled down to 5 degrees celsius for an hour, then room temperature for four hours. It was a very important experiment that could determine a long gone cold closed case that he had found in the police database…..that he most certainly never had access to, or had the skillset to hack into…..

He could always blame Mycroft anyhow.

When his parents alarm does go off, Sherlock sets up his equipment to continue the experiment while he’s at school, goes to the loo to clean off whatever materials he has gotten on his body and clothes, goes downstairs and makes toast and tea and waits until it's time to call a cab to get to school. 

(Sherlock refuses to go on the bus with kids that will sneeze into their hands, throw food around, blast horrid music and overall just killing brain cells faster than skin cells die.

He likes taking cabs, anyway.)

Sherlock is in sixth form, skipping a few years after third year, he has applied to and been accepted to the university of his choosing (Cambridge), it is one day until Easter holiday and a boy in Sherlocks homeroom has a gun.

*****

John wasn't a popular person at school. He wasn't unpopular either. He had two friend's (Bill and Mike) and a lab partner in chemistry (Molly) whom he considers are on the way of becoming friends with. A girl (Sarah) flirts with him sometimes at lunch or in advanced math but it is more teasing and delves into talk of medical school halfway through. Other than those few people, he doesn't talk to other students much. 

He is on the rugby team, but it's more something to make his resume look good than actual drive to go into sports. It helps that it keeps him in shape.

Sometimes, John notices a boy in his homeroom that sits in the back by himself. His dark, curly hair covers his eyes and he doesn't speak up unless it's to call someone out on being wrong, correct the teacher or textbooks, or to knock bullies down a peg or two. John also notices that the boy usually has bruises under his eyes and a yellow spot on his cheek. He wonders if the bullies pay him back outside of school. The boy is only in two of John's classes, so he doesn't see him much.

John wonders if the boy is lonely. Maybe he should invite him to hang out before the holidays?

*****

Sherlock was not popular at all. The students didn't like him. They didn't like the way he would lay the facts out in front of them. How he would tell the bullies that they were insecure about themselves and that Ron really needed to pick which girl he was going to sleep with already as he always smelled of at least five different perfumes and two different colognes. Samuel should really report his mother to the police for neglect and borderline abuse of a child with all the drinking she was doing and, evident of the white powder on the edge of his nose and alcohol on his breath, he should really stop following the footsteps of his parents.

The teachers didn't like him either. They would go red with a mix of anger and embarrassment whenever he called them out on incorrect information, whether from the textbook or from their own mouths. They wouldn't call on him to answer questions unless they suspected he didn't know the answer (He knew). They would turn a blind eye whenever he was taunted or bullied in the halls or outside of class. Sherlock suspected that they would try and alter his marks if they thought they could get away with it (They couldn't. His year ten teachers found that out the hard way).

Sherlock was not in any extracurricular activities besides his own self studies that he indulges in on his own time. He performs experiments, made hypothesis’ and came up with results. He didn't need or particularly want friend's. He was absolutely fine on his own without needing human emotions or distractions. Boring.

Sherlock did keep his eyes out on his classmates though. He would notice that the girl sitting three rows ahead of him in physics would chew her nails to the quick if she was nervous enough. The boy at the front in bio liked to tap his feet and fingers to the beat of music only he could hear at the time. He observed the eager blinks of brown eyes of the girl whose boyfriend was usually waiting for her outside the classroom door on Tuesdays.

He watched a very ordinary boy go on with his life that sat two rows ahead and three seats across.

He watched as that boy with sandy blonde hair, even jaw and kind, dark blue eyes took notice of Sherlock, smile kindly at him before turning around when the teacher entered the room.

Sherlock observed as the boy nodded decisively to himself three days before Easter holiday would start.

He also observed the boy that sits in the corner of the room with dark eyes, worn, baggy clothes and clenched fists come to a decision at the end of that day, intent burning in his eyes as he escaped the classroom as soon as the bell went to avoid the usual bullies that sat in wait every day.

*****  
8:51AM Thursday March 29-One day before Easter Break

John set his bag on his desk when he entered homeroom that morning. The boy that sits in the back is already there, reading a book on tobacco ash. John grins a little and walks over, sitting down in the empty desk next to him. “Hi. I’m John.”

The boy looks up, not smiling back, but does nod in greeting before going back to his book. John doesn't frown or go back to his seat.

“Do you have any plans for the holidays?” John questions.

“Nothing you would be interested in.”

“No?”

The boy looks up again, looking John over before tilting his head slightly. “Are you interested in observing how many watts of electricity it takes to make eyeballs explode? Or seeing how long it takes for acid to burn through different types of wood found across europe, and then those same samples of wood, but with different brands of paint?”

John leans back with a low whistle and a wrinkle of his nose. “Christ! Those are some plans!”

The boy studies John again, eyes narrowed. “Yes, well. Not all of us are interested in travelling.”

“Now who says I’m doing that?” John asks with a look at the clock.

“Your shirt.”

“My-my shirt?”

“Mmm. You are wearing a shirt that is heavily creased at the shirtsleeves, most likely meaning that it hasn't been worn since summer holiday where the temperature was warmer than it is now. It was folded away with your other summer clothes and put away or in the back of a drawer until it got warmer again. As the temperature is still quite chilly for the week in this and surrounding areas, you must have pulled out your thinner clothing for wherever you are travelling to, which will be a warmer place than here. I would say Cornwall, based on the shoes you are wearing. They are different than the shoes you usually wear to school and have faint mud stains with dirt typically found only in Falmouth. Yes, you could say that you just wanted to wear a different pair,” The boy continues before John can protest or question that. “but why deviate now? We only have this last day before break. But the pair you typically wear would be getting cleaned before leaving. Visiting relatives I would say by how you have shaved today, you were most probably told by said relative that she disapproved of facial hair while you are still in school, though you usually have slight stubble every other day for a few days. You don't like shaving. You think you look better with facial hair, which I must tell you, you don't.”

John stares at the boy in amazement. “That was terrific!”

The boy opens his mouth but paused for a moment. “You think?”

John nods. “Oh yes! Brilliant! I have worn these shoes to Falmouth in the fall when my family visited an aunt on my father's side. Never did get around to washing them. But this holiday we are going to St. Ives. We’ve a favored cousin there. A bunch of the family are meeting there during the hols for a few days.”

“There is always something!” The boy mutters. John smiles.

“Maybe you can show me the acid experiments? When I get back?”

“You would be interested in that?” the boy asks skeptically.

“A bit,” John admits.

They study each other for a moment before the boy nods slowly. “Ok. The name is Sherlock by the way.”

“John.”

“Yes. You have already said that.”

John blushes but doesn't look away for longer than a second. “Give me your number so I can text you when I’m back in town?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply when his eyes slide over to the door. They boy with the dark eyes and baggy clothes stands there for a moment, looking over the room before taking his seat in the corner. John turns to look but Sherlock grabs his wrist, stopping him.

“What’s wr-”

“We need to leave. Now.” Sherlock's eyes flicker to John’s for a heartbeat before snapping back over to the boy. as the bell sounds, announcing that classes start. “Right now!”

“Sherlock, wh-”

That's when John hears the sound of the safety of a gun being flicked off.

*****  
8:55AM

Sherlock was not surprised when the boy with the dark blue eyes and blonde hair came over. He wasn't surprised by the inquiry over his plans. He wasn't surprised at the response he got after detailing what he plans to do.

He is surprised by the response he gets after telling John his deductions of him. He had to fight off a faint flush of blood rushing to his face. The exclamations of being ‘terrific’ and ‘brilliant’. The smile that was shot his way. How those eyes shined and grew crows feet at the corners.

He was not surprised when they boy that sits in the corner walks into the class with a gun in his waistband, eyes sweeping the room and lingering on two boys sitting on the opposite side of the room he sits in.

Sherlock is surprised by the terror that runs through his veins when he realizes that John would be sitting in his sights if he didn't come over to talk to him.

So when Sherlock sees the boy move to pull the gun out, he is surprised when John drags him to the floor with him and when the gun is raised he is unsurprised when he crawls over John to protect him.

The first shot rings across the room, followed by a second, third and fourth. Then the screams start. Sherlock can see, under the desks and running legs of other classmates rushing for the door, that the two boys across the room have slumped to the ground, a puddle of blood forming around them. John must see them too, as he lets out a heavy puff of air, as if he was kicked in the lungs. 

More shots echo out and Sherlock starts pushing John towards the door, keeping his back covered. John starts moving on his own after he sucks a breath in. He doesn't scream as he has to move close to the two bodies. Sherlock can see now that they were shot in the chest.

The gunman is walking towards the door now, shooting into the crowd as the rooms next to theirs empty at the sounds of the screaming. John quickly stops Sherlock and slumps down, dragging the boy under him and a girl that laid dead close to them. Sherlock lets his body go limp, eyes staring unfocused to the side and holding his breath. John was too, he could tell.

They stay there for a moment as the gunman's footsteps sound behind them, then in front of them as he walks into the hallway and fires off more shots. Sherlock risks a quick glance to the door and watches as the boy’s hoodie disappears around the corner.

“John,” He whispers as he turns his head to the other boy. “John, the windows.”

Sherlock makes eye contact for the 26th time that morning with the older boy and sees the panic, held at bay in those eyes. His pupils are blown and his face his pale with some blood smudged on his cheek from where it soaked through the girls clothes and onto him. Then he looks at the windows a few feet away and swallows hard. Nods.

They quickly drag themselves over and John, with a glance at the door where the screams were still so loud and the gunshots kept coming, just outside the door, jumps up and unlocks the window, pushing it open. They are on the first floor. It won't be a far drop. He pulls Sherlock to his feet before pushing him out. 

Sherlock drops onto the grass with a thump, the air driven out of him. He looks up to see John hefting one leg out first before the other, sitting on the sill for a moment before he drops down. At the same time he jumps there is a gunshot and Sherlock watches in horror as blood sprays out of Johns left shoulder.

“NO!”

John cries out when he hits the ground and Sherlock jumps to his feet and practically slings John over his shoulder when he reaches him. He may be younger, but he is already just as tall, maybe taller than John. 

Sherlock doesn't look back to see if the murderer looked out the window. He keeps his eyes on the parking lot and runs to hide behind a truck.

He sets John down and takes in the pale face and the blood soaking his shoulder and back. “Sherlock.”

“Shh.” Sherlock demands, ripping the shirt off. He is relieved there's an exit wound. It doesn't seem like the bullet hit any organs besides the skin and while he was bleeding heavily, it wasn't spurting in the way that it would if it nicked the subclavian artery. Sherlock bunched the shirt up and pressed it to the small entrance wound on the back of the shoulder, pushing John to lean against the tire. “Shh. You're okay.”

Sh-Sherl-” John reaches up and presses a hand to Sherlocks thigh. He looks down and sees that his dress pants were ripped on the edge and wet. John's hand comes away covered in blood. 

“Shit.” He can hear sirens in the distance.

Sherlock rips his own white shirt off and presses it to the bigger exit wound on Johns shoulder, pushing his own shoulder to it as he pulls his belt off and shoves his pants down to his knees. It was just a graze. Sherlock grunts as the pain starts to leak through the adrenalin and he makes a tourniquet with the belt above the wound. 

“It's okay!” He reassures John who is crying quietly next to him. “It's fine. It's just a graze, and you are okay. We'll be fine.” The teen fumbles with his phone and calls 999. “It's going to be fine. Were going to see how fast it takes for acid to burn through oak and beech and maple and all sorts of hardwood and softwood. You can tell me what you did in St. Ives. We can do whatever you want to do after.”

Sherlock can hear the sirens down the street come closer, pulling into the lot. He can make out an ambulance pulling in behind a police cruiser. He goes to stand, wave the paramedics over but John grips his hand with both of his. “Don't go!” he rasps out.

“Not. Gonna get help.” Sherlock takes one of the older teens hand and presses it against his previously white shirt, now soaked with blood. He presses the other hand over his own wound and stands up, one hand on John's right shoulder and the other waving above his head. “Help! We’ve been shot!”

One paramedic runs over and Sherlock slumps down in relief, leaning against John. The medic comes around the truck and kneels down next to them, asking questions and Sherlock answers them while he helps get John to one of the many ambulances arriving. He gets in the same car as John, never letting him go as he watches John lose conscious before passing out himself.

*****

When John first wakes up, he hurts. His whole body is like a giant bruise and for a minute he wonders if he got hit by a school bus before he remembers the boy with the gun. He remembers Sherlock helping him, getting shot, seeing Sherlock get shot….

He doesn't know he's panicking until theres a nurse there, telling him that he is okay and his family is on the way before he passes out again.

The second time he wakes up, he’s still sore. He hears his mother’s voice. It sounds angry. She must be talking to his father then. There's a hand in his and he opens his eyes to see her sitting next to him, eyes red. When she sees he’s awake, she calls for a nurse before she gets him some water to sip on. The nurse comes in and asks questions. ‘What's your name? Do you remember the date? Can you recall what happened?’

John answers all the questions before asking one of his own.

“Where’s Sherlock?”

*****

It turns out Sherlock is in a room a few doors down the hall. When John asks if he’s okay, they tell him that he’s fine but still sleeping off painkillers. They give him something light to eat before he falls asleep, asking for Sherlock.

The third time John wakes up, Sherlock is laying in the bed next to him, a book on physical therapy propped up on his chest. John calls to him quietly and Sherlock’s head snaps over to him with a wide smile.

“You're awake! Are you in pain? Have they told you what’s going to happen? Are you going to need surgery? I’ve read it's going to take a while before you can move your shoulder. They may have to go in to fix any nerve damage. Have they-” 

John reaches over the space between the bed and holds his right hand up. Sherlock leans over and takes it in his own left hand, grasping the limb. “It's fine.”

“It's really not.” Sherlock replies, leaning down and pressing his forehead against their hands.

“It will be.”


End file.
